


In The Boudoir: A Tale of A Rising Star and a Nobody

by CanadianKaiju



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Human AU, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-02-20 12:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13146525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianKaiju/pseuds/CanadianKaiju
Summary: Eisenhower had been re-elected two weeks before. Papers rattled on about it like the war with the Soviet Union wasn’t on the brink of global nuclear apocalypse. People rattled on with their daily lives in the city that never sleeps, and Amelia was no exception. 1956 began to fade from her mind as easily as the years before, though her career asked more of her than she ever wanted it to. On a fateful walk home, a stranger outside her apartment catches her attention. Neither of them expects what happens next.





	1. Change?

Winter in New York City filled the air with a certain kind of magic. Every building glittered with warm golden lights along with strings of festive red and green. Melting snow fell from streetlamps and the roofs of buildings, making the bright lights reflect. 1957 Chryslers cruised the streets in an impatient hurry to get home to waiting families for dinner. Streets filled to burst with slush from a recent snow sprayed passerbys with ice and frigid water.

The illustrious Ms. Jones bundled herself against the cold with a warm waist-long brown coat as the sun set on one November day. Brown leaves rustled free from their nearly barren trees and flew along an arctic breeze in front of the movie star. Black heels kept her above the meager slush of the sidewalk below, unsteady as it made her feet. In the halo of lights against an inky black heaven, she fixed her golden hair into the band of her brown hat before pulling it down to cover the tops of her ears. Though, words from her boss still rang within them, filling the 25-year-old with rage.

 _“People are going to want to see you attached, y’know? A domestic kinda gal. Settled, but open to a relationship with the young bulls vying for you.”_ Ugh. Years of thinking the glitz of glamor of the limelight would prevent her from falling into the typical tropes expected for her as a lady were wasted. Then again, what did she really expect? More than ever in this stupid post-McCarthy country, she had to act like the perfect doll of a gal to prevent her job from being axed. Permanently. What was she really expecting? On the bright side — she assumed there was one — Thanksgiving and Christmas would provide a long-needed respite for her to unwind and seal her frayed edges before she broke down on or went off on someone. Maybe she could even read over a few roles to distract herself from the extra fluff that came with being someone newly famous.

A fluffy gray cloud covered the moon before a slow snow fell to cover the wet ground with flecks of shimmering white. Smiling at the beauty of it all, the American actress trudged on through the streets of impossible light. No matter what trials or tribulations met her, all she had to do was preserver through them; even when they were awful or forced her into small rooms with sweaty men with bad breath, or when they forced her to go against every damn fiber of her body that screamed that she was Amelia Faustine Jones, a goddamned star.

As her apartment grew into view, a man sitting on a suitcase near a street lamp grew with it. From a distance, her bright curious eyes saw the frayed edges poking out of his brown winter coat. They saw dirty blond hair on top of his head hanging in greasy lines and covering his chin. They saw a faded red scarf hanging in near tatters. They saw the large man hunched, staring off at the sidewalk in front of him as though he was searching for something. It wasn’t he first night she had seen him there, but it was the first time something made her stop to look at him, _actually_ take the time to look at him. She pulled her coat closer around her chest. The star’s footsteps hesitated on the slippery ground and the loud click-clacking of her heels attracted the hobo’s attention. A long rugged face peered at her with a long dirt-covered nose. Sunken-in strange eyes narrowed at the beautiful blonde, sizing her up. Holding her head above the eyesight of the man, she cleared her throat and fixed some of her hair into her hat as she walked faster to avoid the eventual question for—

“Change?” The man asked in heavily accented in English. The woman glided past him and into the building without as much of a shake of her head or an awkwardly muttered “No.” All he heard was the continued clacking of her heels and the slam to the glass doors of the apartment after the doorman approved her entrance.

 _Отлично_ (1). Huffing in the wintry cold of another night, the man bundled himself up to defend against it, though by that point, his clothes provided meager protection against it. What was he really expecting? He parked his suitcase to beg for change in front of the most expensive apartment building that was the closest to his soon-to-be work. It went without saying whoever that woman was had to be levels beyond him in the first place, but some goddamned human kindness would have been sweet. That’s what he got for depending on human kindness, he supposed. Here and in the Soviet Union, asking for help dished him nothing but the worst that humanity had to offer.

A speeding car splashed his back with icy cold spray, wetting his already matted hair in the process. Slumping near his suitcase to use it as a barrier, the man stared up into the cloudy heavens for some sort of answer, though he knew better than to expect one. Hunger growled before the man clenched his stomach to quiet the embarrassing admission. For his own acts of good will, he was repaid with violence. Gloved hands hid the scars of it, thankfully. For as much of a nobody as Ivan Olegovich Braginsky knew himself to be, he had some amount of sense to know walking about with his past on his sleeves would hurt him far more than any angel from a hardened heaven denying him money.

Snow stuck in messy globs to his coat. Cold lingered in tired bones as the 26-year-old as he continued to look up. Pessimistic as his thoughts were, maybe tomorrow there’d be another chance. His days of being forced into poverty were numbered: Only five days remained until he was allowed to work above the table. No matter what happened in the meanwhile, he had to survive until then; even in this horrible cold, or those who would rather leave him forsaken. Five days. Then, a warm home far away from strangely lit streets of the city awaited him. Far away from strange people in this strange country. Far away from the cold and unforgiving lights that shined into every nook and cranny. Alone under the golden light of a streetlamp, Ivan closed his eyes and bundled his arms around his chest to fall asleep upright for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Excellent, splendid.


	2. Hospitality

Ah, home. Amelia’s penthouse apartment welcomed her like an old friend once she trudged up the vacant stairwell that echoed with its own silence. She turned on one of the lights, illuminating out from a singular ceiling light, though her dark blue curtains prevented most of it from escaping aside from the out of the corners. A king-sized bed still unmade from that morning and the piled pillows sat ignored as she walked by them. Near-empty shelves were her only audience. Stripping down to nothing, she changed into a thick white silk bathrobe in the comfort of her own bedroom, out of sight of her bosses criticizing her, and the lingering image of the man hunched over what was probably the lion’s share of his worldly possessions.

From the safety of the high-rise guarding her against the image, she still glanced down at the street below once her body was protected against any curious eyes. While her window didn’t face the same street that homeless man had pitched as his home, she still watched out for him in case. She caught a glimpse as the snowflakes grew bigger and bigger and dancing along a breeze instead of any human visage. The chill pierced through the glass, vibrating with it, even through her window barred any air from floating in. 

Maybe she should’ve tried to give him something, not that she had any cash money on her to prevent being mugged. Her scarf. Her gloves. Maybe even her hat. After all, a poor mood didn’t excuse anyone for mistreating another person, especially not around the holidays. not someone so in need of charity, and not someone who was in such a high position as herself. Even if he was a man. Her forehead pressed against the window as her steady breathing fogged it and prevented her from looking out into the glittering streets below. Even the large snow flakes fogged away from her vision after a few moments. Assuming he found somewhere warm for the night, she could bring him some coffee in the morning and excuse her poor behavior. She would bring him some coffee and some cookies to excuse her poor behavior. To apologize. To rationalize. To move on.

God, between being needlessly cruel to a homeless man and getting chewed out for not being ‘domestic enough’ by her boss, her throat ached for a drink, and a stiff one at that. Pressing her hand to the window to remove the foggy gunk she left in her wake, she helped herself strand up straighter. Despite being ‘rich and famous’, empty shelves and nooks held spaced out photos of other stars she had met no more than six months prior, autographs, a few of herself from award shows, but no awards just yet. She wiped away cloudy dusk from an empty shelf, only to dust it off her hand a few moments after. Leaving her bedroom, she took a deep breath as she reached her living room.

Her living room space consisted of a love seat, a radio, a television, and a foot stool she used as a coffee table filled with pieces of random paper. Padding past her belongings, she went into her alcohol cabinet in her modern kitchen. Three bottles of red wine, two of whiskey, six of assorted liquors from Maman, four of vodka greeted her. Her long fingers drummed on theframe before she let out a loud huff echoed off the mostly barren walls. It felt like a whiskey sort of night. She pulled out the bottle and set it on her faded yellow counter. A tall water glass joined it before the amber liquid poured in up to the brim.

_Sweet release._ She didn’t even make it to her love seat before she sipped a mouthful. Buzzing haziness filled her mind. Half falling onto her love seat in spite of her relative sobriety, she rested her legs on her footstool and cozied up. After another sip, she reached out to turn on her radio for the news; it was closer than walking over to the Boobtube for whatever programs NBC, ABC, or CBS had on. As she reached down to set the glass on the floor, her hand brushed against another glass. Her index finger scooted the empty glass away to set down her full one. Clawing out for a notepad and her pen, she got to work with her to-do list for the next day. At the top of the list she wrote: MAKE COOKIES + COFFEE FOR THE MAN OUTSIDE. Underneath, she penciled in various people with whom she needed to speak (including her agent) and the roles for which she wanted to read. Her pencil hesitated over the paper once she finished with the roles. She tapped the graphite against the blank space before she took a long sip of her whiskey. And another. And another. And another. And another. Until not a drop more of the amber liquid would fall.

With every sip, the world had rocked and swayed more harshly around her as a man’s voice signaled the end of the broadcast. _Good fucking riddance_. A limp hand slapped the off-switch before the actress stood up in her dark apartment. Leaning against the arm of the seat, she regained her bearings as the world spun on around her with little regard for the well-being of a sloshy stomach and wobbly legs. Her hands flew out in front of her to face her from any nasty falls as she staggered through the pitch black darkness. Her chest met with the hard wall of the bedroom. A oafish grunt choked out from her lips before she skirted around it. Not bothering to peel anything off per her normal habit, she flopped onto her bed as a fish trying to flop back into the ocean before her eyes closed.

The morning sun gave him no respite from the bitter cold. In fact, all it did was shine optimistically into his eyes. _Встань, потому что сегодня новый день_ (1), it sang to him as sweetly as a summer breeze with the same empty promises _._ Huffing instead of screaming as he so often wished he could, he felt over his face; his skin froze colder than an iceberg and his bristling beard hair had filled with chunks of ice over the course of the night. If years in northern Siberia hadn’t hardened him against the cold, Ivan would complain a lot more than he had and even more. Only four more days. That’s all he needed. He could survive in the cold for four days. He had done it for four years, and he could do it for another four.

The hardened back of his suitcase arched his back as he shifted from left to right to rub out the cramps in his twisted spine. His calloused hands pushed him up to face yet again with the skyscraper. Dauntless as ever, yet he remained undaunted in the foggy morning. His spine curved inward as he sat up. His hand moved to his face despite the gravel pitting his skin. Still trying to rub warmth into his face as the small stones fell onto the sidewalk where they belonged, he noticed someone hurrying out of the building with their hands full of something. The while form shrugged and tugged at the shiny cloth surround her form as a plate of cookies rested in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. 

_Эта—мечта_ (2) _._ As the same blonde angel from the haze of last night slipped out into the cold streets with treats, he sat up straighter than a solider as he looked side to side for a possible explanation for her behavior. She swayed like a leaf upon the wintry wind as did her glittering white robe, almost like Snegurochka appearing out of thin air. They both seemed to dance on the breeze, so far removed from the realities below. His mind pondered and pondered as she crossed the space between them. Without rhyme or reason, she stopped in front of him loyal as a dog about to pounce on its master. His face remained neutral as his eyes squinted to behold her as her face blocked out the beautiful sun.

“Good morning,” greeted the woman. Her voice was warm like a mother’s cooing to her child. His eyes narrowed farther as he smelled the sweet scent of baked goods. Given what was in her hands, he assumed it wouldn’t be that out of the question if she did have children. All the more reason to avoid him the night before, he supposed, yet there she stood. More confused than ever, Ivan felt his heavy brows raise and furrow to think of the words in English to express what was on the tip of his tongue. 

Amelia hung over the man like a steel curtain. Thank God the sun was behind her. Waking up five minutes before her alarm with a hangover hurt enough, not to mention the 40-minute cookies she wiped up with a little flour, egg, sugar, and chocolate bits. Light would blind her if she dared to turn around. The man continued to squint up at her, probably thanks to the unforgiving sun.

“Cat got your tongue?” She chimed, setting the white mug with a small angel down on the ground next to him before setting the cookies down on his knee. Some of her blonde hair fell down into her face. Ivan stared, nearly reaching out to fix the perfect woman before she stroked the loose strands behind her ear. The woman shifted her weight on her “Ah, well. Brought you a little something to make up for seeming so frosty last night.” Her words lagged behind her tongue in her mouth as she spoke. The man only blinked slowly at her like she was speaking German or some other foreign language to him to him. “I felt bad for leaving you out here without paying you a second glance, so to make up for it, I made you these!” Her rosy lips pulled into a tired smile.

She had ignored him. That was fine. She had had her reasons, and she could have them until she drowned from the weight of them alone. She could not give him change. His stomach could and would grumble on until it gnawed on the lining of his stomach for all he cared. But this? Anger bubbled up within him at the innocuous statement. His conscious didn’t and wouldn’t bare the brunt for her worry, yet his heart still moved by it. Shame hardly weighed on his heart if she had caused herself a sleepless night on his behalf. What did it mean? His chapped lips pulled into a thin line before he turned away to curse, so to protect her from the awful words leaving his lips.

Confused more than anything else, the American searched the man’s ferocious face for some sort of answer to his anger with her. 

“Sir?” She asked again, taking a step away and crossing her arms over her chest to protect herself. “Sir? Are you allergic to something? I didn’t—”

“Why,” he interrupted in a forced, breathy voice, “did you decide to do this?” His accent was thick, though from how he spoke, he had to have been speaking English for a while. Forcing himself on his arching legs, the two-meter tall man towered over the much smaller woman as the skyscraper loomed over them both. The woman shrunk down with her shoulders going inward as though his weight physically bore down on her.

“The cookies?” Amelia clarified as she held the plate tighter against her chest, then placed the coffee much into a small, unoccupied corner. Smiling up at him as the sun illuminated his world-worn face, she rocked her weight onto her toes, inadvertently moving closer to the large, intimidating, angry, stoic, handsome, rugged—

“ _Yes_ ,” he answered her after a long pause, crossing his python-like biceps over his broad chest. Amelia let her eyes linger over the statuesque man. _How did such a dish end up on the streets?_ Adonis himself wasn’t nearly as muscly and neither were most of her co-stars in the more romance-focused films. His jaw alone could crack concrete. Her train of thought crashed as her eyes traced him up and down like so many men had to her, lingering over bulging, flexed muscles. All the salvia in her mouth evaporated as her tongue wagged to find an appropriate response.

“I, uh, felt bad.” An uneven laugh punched back through her lips as her voice went up as though she asked him a question. “I wanted to—to make up for leaving you so high and dry. It’s winter, and—“

“You have already told me that,” he reminded her like an authoritative auteur working on his vision.

“Sure did. Why would you expect me to change my answer?” She searched his angry face.

His lips fell open as his voice failed to produce what so clearly sparked in his mind. Why did he expect her to change? Rather, why did he expect her not to write some wrong? His eyes blinked as his mind chugged along, producing an elementary excuse at best. “It is not normal for Americans to change their minds about someone for no reason.” His brows furrowed more as he looked at the small treats. While stories in school narrated the generosity of Americans, they always pointed how a clever lay beneath, whether it be to test someone’s beliefs, to cheat someone out of their hard work, or to harm outright. What was her plan?

“Uh, how many Americans have you met, Big Guy?” Her head tilted to the side, draping golden blonde hair to the side. Of course, the question wasn’t intended to be mean. Sure, while her mother was from France and her ‘father’ was from England, both of them—one of them changed their mind when they realized they were mistaken. 

Nearly violet eyes glared up at her. To show that she meant no offense, she held her hands in front of her chest as the man took a step closer. Her heart pounded against her rib cage as though it wanted to escape before he looked up to the gray sky above them.

“I have—I have not talked to many people born in America,” he admitted in a hesitant whisper. Why would he want to? In the coming days, he would hardly need to worry about the hustle-and-bustle of the big city, let alone Americans outside of his work. Though, the real answer to her question nagged the back of his mind. Why was he so concerned about what she did with her own freewill? It had not bothered him the night before—Well, it had, but only because he wanted—Why had he even asked her for change in the first place?

“Then, how about you try to get to know one before you swing your massive weight around and scare the dickens outta lil’ ol’ me?” She nudged his shoulder, pushing him back slightly. On top of that, there was nothing to change her mind about in the first place. She acted like a bitch for no real good reason, so long as he didn’t start hurting her right at that moment.

Her fast speech confused and brought his heart to race. Was a threat? No hushed promises of physical harm, only this strange burgeoning feeling that willed his heart to fall through the strong bones beneath his skin? All he felt in the pit of his stomach was warmth. His heavy brows furrowed as he looked down his long nose at her. 

“I am sorry, Ma’am,” he murmured with a bow of his head and a step back. Ma’am was the correct form of politeness in this situation, correct? They hardly knew each other other than by their looks. Why was she using such an odd term for him? ‘Big Guy’? What did that even mean?

“You should be, Big Guy! How the hell could I protect myself against someone like you?” She asked rhetorically before exhaling in exhaustion. Her index finger and thumb pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the growing stress building in her gut. He hadn’t intended to frighten her. After all, who was she to him? Just a stranger who ignored him when he was obviously cold. “Just enjoy your cookies. No harm, no foul.” Her body turned away from him into the light of the sun. Her whole face scrunched up as pain shot straight into her brain before she felt her shoulder burdened with a cold hand.

“May I ask what is your name, so I may return your plate later?”

“Ms. Jones, but Johnny over there knows me as Amelia.“ She gestured to the doorman with her entire right hand. The taller man huddled into her smaller frame to squint his eyes at the man who barred his entrance. Her shoulders curled back into the man’s larger frame to balance her unsteady, hungover one. Sky blue eyes met the side of his face.“Does a tall class of water like you have a name, or do you just let your muscles do all of your speaking for you?”

“И—Ivan. Ivan Braginsky.” Huh. A russkie. Despite his accent, she half-expected for him to be from one of the less Communist countries in Europe. Like France. Still, who was she to judge a man living out on the streets when her profession had been long barred women from performing for how ‘morally reprehensible’ it apparently was? Hell, her own parents had moved here after the First World War. If he came here with the intent to make himself better, then so be it. He just needed a little bit more time. Out of courtesy, she turned back and offered him her hand to shake.

Ivan stared at the friendly gesture in shock like she had pulled out a gun on him, though her hesitance to say anything almost caused a heart attack. He had just told this American his name, his very common _Russian_ name, a first name he shared with 10 other men back home and a last name shared with at least four others, and she hadn’t so much as batted an eye at him. Was she luring him into some sort of trap? More than anything, he—he relished the fact that she hadn’t called over the doorman or begged for police assistance for the obvious commie. It brightened his opinion of her, though he _knew_ not every American would welcome him with such open arms. Her hand insisted on the gesture before he relented. Given what he could see of her quivering body underneath that robe, not much room remained for a knife, shiv, or gun. His rough hand took her gentle one, shook it once so hard that he heard her wrist crack, and snaked away from her and back to his side.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Braginsky,” she finally announced with a smile bright enough to block out the sun. “Say, if you ever need to shower or anything, you can just talk to Johnny and you can come up to my apartment. I know how awful it feels to be covered in dirt and grim, so if you want to spare yourself, just come on up.” Her shoulders swayed softly as she fidgeted in place. “I mean, assuming you wouldn’t mind going into an _American’s_ apartment.” She stuck out her tongue to tease.

Violet eyes rolled with great effort. “It would not be the worst thing in the world. Thank you for the gospit—xospit—“

“Hospitality?” She finished for him.

His nose scrunched up at how easily those rose lips and bright white teeth could produce those words. “Yes. _That._ ”

“Hospitality, you mean,” she repeated as her smile transformed into a smug smirk.

“Yes,” Ivan sighed. “Thank you for that.”

“Hospitality. The act of being hospitable to your fellow man.”

“Is there an echo out here?” He turned his head to hide his amusement and annoyance with her. 

“It’s not that. It’s just whenever I made a mistake in speech, my D—I would have to repeat the word in a sentence a few times to say it correctly. It’s that simple, and I promise that I’m not trying to be malicious or anything.”

“Hm.” Perhaps she was telling the truth. Perhaps not. In any case, he did have a problem with the English ‘h’-sound and the beginning of some words, so it might be a good idea to practice. “Kh—-“

“Hhhh,” Amelia urged with an open mouth.

“X—“ Ivan began before Amelia shook her head.

“Hhhh!”

“G—“ She shook her head furiously.

“Hhhh!” This time she tilted her head back and pointed to her half-open mouth to show how her tongue was hardly involved in the noise she was producing.

Ivan’s brows furrowed as his mouth opened to try again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doorman tread over to them, meaning that this little hissing fight had come to an end. He chuckled at her continued insistence before he placed his hands out in between them. “I believe our fun time has come to an end. It has been an—how do you say it? Interesting meeting you?”

“There!” Amelia pointed to his lips. “You just did the ‘h’-sound just fine!” The doorman raised a brow at their exchange, standing behind the delicate blonde actress, and glared ta the much larger man.

“Uh—Thank you for everything, Amelia, but it is time that you go back inside,” he urged.

“Why do you—?” She turned her head to see the doorman. “Oh.” Well, that put a damper on things when they were having such a rousing conversation. She glanced up at him. “Well, I’ll see you around, Big Guy. The invitation’s open any time you want.” She winked, then walked back with the doorman to the building.

_Амелия Джонс. Какая прекрасная, умная женщина_ (3) _._ His heart sunk as he watched her sway back to her building as easily as she swayed to him. Part of him wished to reach out and keep her in place to continue their frivolous lesson in English, weird as it must’ve seemed on the surface to outsiders. The rest of his broad chest followed into the set slump his heart fell into. The rest of him knew that she wouldn’t be back for him. Whenever he sulked up to her apartment, he would be greeted with confusion as he tried to collect on an empty promise. He watched Amelia enter the building with the doorman holding the door open for her.

Sitting down, he found himself hugging around his chest. This wasn’t supposed to hurt. She was a silly, untrustworthy American, angelic as she was. And who was he? Someone who knew better than to trust silly, untrustworthy Americans. His eyes closed. He needed to forget about her. He couldn’t fit her into his or his sisters’ lives, nor would she act nicely enough for long enough to prove that she belonged there. Alone, the world could punch and dig and whip and stab into him from the outside all it wanted, but her? She somehow evaded his defenses and—and why? He barely knew her and barely had a conversation with her. She was just another passerby. She didn’t think much of their interactions, and that in itself was an unremarkable fact of this world.

His stomach groaned out for food. His eyes met the pristine plate before he picked it up and set it into his lap. While not the healthiest food to eat, the cookies were still warm and every bite tasted more delicious than the last. He wiped some crumbs out of his beard as he looked up at the building, up to where her room must have been before he let out a forlorn sigh. This infatuation would pass.

It had to. After four more days, he would never see Ms. Amelia Jones again, and it was better for him that way. As the American expression went, when one door opens, another was sure to close. 

Her apartment door closed behind her. Her hands rested on the wood before she slipped down to the floor. _Who knew random homeless men could be so handsome?_ She found herself chuckling softly as the bubbly feeling peaked in her chest. God, it was _awful_ and _amazing_ at the same time, though she knew better than to think it was something more between them. It only felt nice. Chances were, the hardened Adonis downstairs hardly thought twice about her or her cookies. A man like that had to be snatched up by some other broad who had seen him first. It ached, sure, but it had to be the closest thing to romance she had felt in a long, long while. 

She sighed in content, forgetting her responsibilities for a moment until the loud ringing of her phone brought her out of her romantic fairy tale and urghed her to pick up.

“This is Amelia F. Jones, how can I hel—?” She repeated her own schtick like she could repeat lines out of Shakespeare. That didn’t stop one _very_ excited, raspy-voiced stranger from interrupting her.

“Amelia!” He shouted, though his voice was almost as soft as her older brother’s. “Hi, it’s me.”

Amelia felt her whole body recoil with disgust and confusion. Why the hell was this guy being so personable with her when she didn’t know his name of all things? Her lips began to form the beginning letter of a certain four letter word, but her boss’ words came ringing back to her. If coming off as ‘domestic’ would really help her career, then so be it. “ _Oh!_ ” She gasped in a high, false falsetto. “And with whom is it that I’m speaking?”

“Greg.” She had _never_ met a Greg in Hollywood or her personal life. Her confusion built into a tremulous worry before she cleared her throat. “How are you doing?” He asked in a sing-song voice as though they were old friends.

“Uh, good. Doin’ pretty well,” she lied to save face. “How did you get this number?”

“Oh! Your boss gave it to me on one of these little cards, see?” She couldn’t see, but _someone_ was going to be getting an earful later. She grunted in understanding. “I thought it would be a good idea to call you. Y’know I’m just your biggest fan!”

“That’s—“ She began hesitantly before he cut her off again.

“I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” His voice filled with sadness. Already hooked, the American sighed.

“No. You didn’t. What’s on your mind, Greg?"

Though Amelia tried to interject to force him to hang up on his own, time and time again this man would cut her off with a ‘Y’know’ or ‘See?’ He had to have gone on for an hour before she thought up the perfect way to get him to hang up. “Well, gotta go. My husband needs some work done in the kitchen and I gotta go help him!”

“Oh.” She could heard the heartbreak over the phone receiver. “Okay. Talk to you later then!” He hung up abruptly. Pride filled her every pour before one singular, nagging thought occurred to her: He still had her number. Wanting to scream, she padded into the kitchen and began to pour the amber liquid into a small shot glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Get up because today's a new day.  
> (2) This is a dream.  
> (3) Amelia Jones. What a beautiful, intelligent woman.
> 
> So, that took longer than expected. Whoopsie. I’ll be more diligent about uploading in a semi-regular manner.  
> Also, a lot of the Russian is going to be off, but I’m doing my best.


	3. Bread?

Another day wasted, and all Ivan could focus on was the deepness of the clear blue sky and his aching body. Thoughtlessly, he nibbled on the odd cookie before going to find something hot to eat. Given the shabby-looking state of his bags and ‘Johnny’ dutifully watching over the door, he left all of his worldly positions be as he searched for what his body craved most: food.

  
Streets lined with slush splashed him haphazardly, soaking his worn work pants. He tugged at his coat against the dampness enveloping him before he found his way to the food center he had found nestled in a side street within his first few days of arriving. He stood as he waited for the food and the eventual sermon that followed. His lips tugged this way in that, putting on the expected most Americans wore despite how stupid he looked.

  
Hallow-faced men and women stood with their heads down, some rambling about the unseen dogging after them like hounds in the safety of shadows. Others sat silently as the stillness of the grave with their heads bowed to avoid all eye-contact. Still, others swayed drunk and impatiently berating those serving them. Ivan wadded his way through the crowd one step at a time to reach two heavy iron doors. He held them open for the people behind him who searched around with paranoia in their eyes and wobbled more than trees in the wind. Two cheery women with their dirty blonde hair pulled back with plastic and nets behind glass smiled blithely as they filled a tray with food for him. He watched, rubbing his lower back as he listened in, too.

  
“I heard some other girl got a callback the other week. The one who worked here, Veronica,” the older one whispered as her eyes glanced up to Ivan before she flashed a smile at the tall man on the other side of the glass, only for it to falter as soon after. Ivan chewed on the inside of his lips. What he did know about ‘calling back’ usually involved acting  
The next woman placed a piece of bread near some mashed potatoes with gravy. She had to be Natalya’s age. Sixteen at most with that same long hair and piercing— “Was it the same man?” She questioned, ignoring Ivan entirely and knitting her brows together in concern. The tall man shifted his weight to be closer to the conversation.

  
“I think so,” the first woman answer, glancing down at the food. “I haven’t heard from her since.”

  
“Maybe Hollywood swept her off her feet and that strange man was just what she needed to get in,” the second mused without a shred of conviction remaining in her voice. “All we can do about it now is pray.”

  
“And file a police report,” the first added, squeezing her arms closer together before she caught sight of Ivan’s piercing violet eyes. “Is everything all right, sir?”

  
Ivan took in a sharp gasp of air as both women trained their eyes on him. His chapped lips formed a tentative smile before he said the one word he was confident would be perfect out of his lips. “Bread?”

  
The first woman glanced down at the bread she had placed on his plate. “Sir, you already have bread. I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be fair to the others if I gave you—“

  
The younger woman tapped on the other's shoulder. “Hasn’t he been coming here on and off for at least two months now?” She asked in a hushed voice and with a pointed index finger at Ivan. Standing away from the glass as though to recuse himself of the accusation, he looked away from their gaze and slowly side-stepped to escape before an argument would break out or he would have to speak more English. “He needs a little more food,” the same woman continued. “It’s cold outside, Sissy. And he’s starving.”

  
‘Sissy’ puffed out her wrinkled cheeks in disapproval before sneaking a warm dinner roll into Ivan’s hesitant and retracting hand. “God bless you, sir.”

  
“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured to the point where his words with all the solemnity of a prayer nod to hide his accent as he stuffed the spare piece of bread into his coat pocket. “I hope you find your friend.” A quiet ‘thanks’ was murmured in reply as he went to go take his seat for the semi-required sermon and preaching. While the bread was still warm, Ivan took a fair sized bite and leaned over the table, avoiding anyone who might dare take a seat next to him.

  
A warm, fluffy bite filled his man took the podium near the front of the dreary room. He started his speech, or sermon, or whatever this was supposed to be an anecdote from the Bible. His violet eyes rolled back in his head so far that he swore he could see the hollow of his skull.

  
He glanced towards the two women chatting behind the food counter as his earlier conversation with an American came to mind. Her words still rang in his head about not judging her prematurely, but how couldn’t he? Not twelve hours before, she ignored him in favor of getting to her home faster. While it annoyed him, she was under no obligation to help him. The fact that she returned stunned him more than he liked to let on and the cookies she baked were absolutely delicious. However, she did it for her own selfish reasons; she said it herself. She felt bad about leaving him out there. Thinking her good deed stemmed from anything else other than her guilt would be delusional. Her good deed in itself wasn’t that life-changing or all that sacrificial as the Bible (or what he knew of it) required, though he appreciated it regardless. He appreciated what she had done and what those poor women behind the counter had done.

  
And those thoughts of doubt dissipated from his minds like clouds on a sunny day. Why attack their reasoning behind it?

  
The man talked on, citing other various Bible stories about vines, branches, about a tax collector, and about the Good Samaritan. Another fluffy piece of bread filled his mouth as he plopped it in. Then again, back home and especially when he was growing up, strangers were feared. Paranoia reigned for reasons he hadn’t discovered until his late adolescence. Murmurs spread through his rural town like wildfire that the new person was a capitalist or was a government official, checking to see that everything had bee distributed from larger farms. Helping others was reserved for exclusively for the neighbors he knew, and in return, their little family was helped in his foggy memories. Focusing on the hardwood, he shook his head. What could the foggy past do but sit and hang over what could be a content future with his sisters once they arrived?

  
Ivan stood from his chair, looking at his mostly full plate. His shoulders pulled in and his head bowed to let the others behind him who might have been listening continue uninterrupted. He had forgotten water to go with his meal and asking for the liquid would be disastrous thanks to his native language. Maybe those girls would give him the water without suspecting him or his accent. Like a ghost, he slipped across the planks of wood as people much less fortunate than himself chattered amongst themselves. After all, his time on the streets just like all the horrible things had in his life. Life in America—and Americans challenging as they were—brought with it a whole host of chances that he had yet to see without fear of being sent back. He could blend in. He could—what was the phrase? Prove his mettle? Some vague metaphor from Shakespear, he was sure. Sniffling from being out in the cold for so long, he rubbed his hand over his nose as he approached the chatting women again.

  
“…I think we should track him down, at least. What are the police—“ Sissy murmured before her dark brown eyes connected to the large man who had gotten food from them. The shorter girl opened her mouth to speak and agree until Sissy patted her shoulder and spoke. “Need something, sir?”

  
“V—Water, please?” He flashed them his most brilliant smile.

  
The younger woman raised a brow at the mistaken start before the elder nudged her shoulder to get her to grab a cup of water. Sissy returned the man’s smile without the nervous clattering teeth that went into his own. “How are you doing tonight, sir?”

  
“Well.”

  
“You sure it’s only well?” She questioned as she lowered her head. “I’ve heard you speak tonight more than any night in the past.”

  
Unsure if that was true or not, he shrugged and bowed his head. Sissy chuckled slightly, glancing back at the younger girl to check if she was getting the water as instructed. “I just hope you’re doing better. I’ve seen you walk in here for three months straight and I don’t think I’ve heard your voice until tonight.”

  
“I think I am,” Ivan assured her, ignoring her other comment with a bowed head and cold shoulder. “Thank you for your concern.”

  
“Thank you for yours,” she murmured. The younger woman popped up with the water before Sissy handed it over. The Russian grabbed it and gave a nod to acknowledge the kind women who didn’t seem to notice or care about his accent. He crossed the room only to find a thin woman with their mouth full of bread and wolfing down the rest of his food. His brows furrowed as he stayed a few meters away from her.

  
Her whole body bent in on itself as though she was guarding her distended stomach. She couldn’t have been much older than Natasha, and in her condition, the food would do her more good for her than to him. Without another word, Ivan took another sip of his water and set it next to her. Startled, the young woman mumbled out a mess of twisted apologies before he shook his head. He nudged the half-full closer to her before he turned on his heel to leave. Waving, he murmured his adieus to the women. The preacher commented on how rude it was to leave in the middle of someone talking and how Ivan would be forgiven for his transgressions, but he only came and stayed for the food.

Ivan shut the heavy door behind him as quietly as a church mouse.

  
Street stood as sentries along the fuming night sky as clouds expanded to the heavens. Again, Ivan turned his collar to the cold and damp. Someone stepped around in the shadows as he or she didn’t want to be watched. Turning a blind eye to what he saw for the sake of staying out of it, the Russian lumbered on. As snow fell, he saw his suitcase come into view before the Russian fell heavily against the impromptu cushions he had been sleeping Only three full days remained in this lonely hell by the time the next. rosy morning greeted him on the cold pavement. Only three more days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took forever! Next chapter we're getting back into more Amelia and Ivan, so stay tuned and get ready for more.  
> Also, I'd like to thank everyone who has left kudos/comments/everything since the last chapter update. Super encouraging in continuing this effort.


	4. Dinner

Morning pried greedily into Amelia’s living room through an opening in as the loud ringing of the phone pierced the peace that enveloped her empty apartment. Sky blue eyes opened tiredly as she turned on the chubby skin of her cheek to glare a hole in the infernal device. Her senses came back to her in a fuzzy cloud at first before the hammered down on the inside of her head like a vibrating gong which tensed her whole body. Her eyes squeezed shut to block out the sun, the ringing, the lingering memories of the day prior before the phone stopped. Sighing in relief, she relaxed her tense body before the phone rang out again for attention.

A beleaguered groan left her lips before she felt around for the stupid device. Agent, boss, or Edward Muhl (1) himself be damned. Her hand found the cold plastic as she went through her normal way of answering the phone before deciding against it. She took a deep breath before lifting the receiver to her ear and huffed out, “What do you want from me?”

“Petite (2)!” Her mother’s perplexingly shrill, yet comforting French voice hollered through the receiver to reach the other blonde. “Where have you been?” Amelia rolled over to hide her face in the arm of her comfortable loveseat as the pounding only increased. “You promised to call me a week ago, and I have not heard a single word from your tongue. Then, this morning I have called you three times. Three! How could you do this panic to your own mother? The woman who birthed and raised you?”

“‘My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound (3)’,” Amelia remarked as she stroked her hair back behind her ear. On the other end, she heard the groan that came with Maman recognizing that line. “I’ve been in the same old place doing the same old thing, Maman. You know how forgetful I can be with calling when nothing’s changing.” Scolded for not being ‘domestic enough’—whatever that meant—aside, her life and career had fallen into a rut. Roles to read. Successes to be had. Whiskey to drink. All of it held so much promise the second she reached out and swatted for it, and if she became more ‘domestic’.

“No new man in your life?” The Frenchwoman cooed over the line. “No handsome movie star waiting to take you into his arms?”

Scoffing, Amelia shook her head. Out of all the things in the world to ask first, leave to her mother to ask about some new budding romance. “You know how I feel about that too, Ma. I don’t need one to get me through this life.” She stretched out her stomach against the soft material of her love seat. Her voice accused, “You haven’t for the past decade.”

“Eight years, 11 months, 12 days,” Maman corrected with all the self-righteousness of someone who knew they were 100% correct. Amelia felt her eyes roll back into her head far enough to see her brain. _Jesus, I know you’re out there. Kill me now if you have any mercy!_ “But I am a sullen old woman! Amelia, you are lively! You are gorgeous! There surely must be men flocking to you!”

“Would you try to enter a relationship with your coworkers?” Before she would hear the inevitable ‘oui’, Amelia added and raised a finger as though that would stop the inevitable words, “Would you try to enter a relationship with your coworkers when all of America was watching your relationship?”

A hesitant answer came. “Depends—how much I wanted to be with him. I do not think fearing other people’s judgment is a good reason to deny myself a happy relationship?”

Amelia buried her face in the armchair and murmured as an aside, “What’s a good reason to deny yourself anything, Maman?” She then whispered to herself. “ _You_ obviously never have.”

The older woman cleared her throat loudly, smothering the silence. “My point is, my darling and loving daughter, I want you to be happy. I want to see you taken care of. I think a relationship is exactly what you need.”

“Why?” She turned on her back to face the ceiling. “I can take care of myself. I have this apartment all to myself. I have food. I have everything I need!” On the one hand, she had the Adonis outside whom she would most likely never hear from again. After all, most people took their showers in the morning and the fact that it wasn’t him a-knockin’ to wake her up and let her know exactly how he felt about her. On the other, a creepy man who shouldn’t be contacting her in the first place was probably going to figure out she didn’t have a husband.

Her daughter would ask such a question. “There is a certain, oh, je ne sais quoi, about having someone to love you, to hold you on cold winter nights. To smile with you and share in your joys and sorrows. Having a man ram his—“

“I take your point! I get it! You don’t need to continue with that thought. Nope. I understand fully what you mean.” Her cold, freehand smoothed the hot skin of her face as she tilted it off to the side. She heard Maman laugh on the other side of the phone.

“Oh, your mouth is not so smart now, hm?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry about not calling for a few weeks and being fresh with you,” she apologized through clenched teeth to change the subject before any more awkward topics came up in the waves of this speech. “How have you been? Still living it up on my paycheck in Paris?”

Silence filled the air. A telling, silence not unlike the last one that swelled with tension. A nice knot got into her throat. “I am in town, which is why I have not set up an international call, you silly girl. How could I call you on the phone like a normal person without an international call?”

“Yeah!” Amelia chimed, sitting up finally as she realized that a certain older Frenchwoman would want to visit with her. Possibly see the homeless man camped outside her apartment complex. In comparison to catching a break in acting, catching a break with her mother was a lot harder. “Were you planning on visiting?”

“Oui, I have someone with whom I need speak, but tomorrow I should come for a visit.” She cleared her throat. “Are you sure I won’t have anyone to meet?”

Amelia twirled her hair around her finger as the gears in her head turned. A thick Russian accent rang in her ears like she had heard it more times than just funnily hissing at one another like stray cats. “Yeah. I’m sure. Though, there’s this homeless man you might see outside of my apartment.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she sighed out wantonly. “Nice guy. Shame he’s down on his luck.”

“Do you know his name, perchance, ma Petite?

“Ah, it’s um—“ She hesitated. Her finger tugged on her hair. Maman wasn’t the type to persecute unjustly, but she doubted the man, who could hardly say “hospitality” without mistakes, would appreciate her revealing him to her mother of all people. What was in a name anyway? What could she really do? Hunt him down to force him to marry her? Hardly, given that guy had to be over six feet and was the most intimidating person she had encountered since Joan Crawford. “It’s Ivan. Nice guy, nice man.”

“Nice name,” Maman finished as though it didn’t astound her in the least that her frigid, single daughter seemed to think this man was nice and knew his name. Compliments ran deep for her little independent soldier, especially if she practically raved about him in such a vague manner and was so reticent to tell her his name. “Is he a true gentleman? Does he hold open the doors at thresholds and marvels over every step you take?”

Her eyes rolled so far back into her skull she was sure she could see the grey matter of her brain. “I’m sure he doesn’t, Ma. All I found out is his name and had a brief conversation with him.” Nothing remained between them. It happened that they talked, not fated or predestined. Still, her hair spun and the silly sounds echoed in her ears. “That said, he was still pretty nice. Cordial. A little intimidating.” Also little ignorant about Americans on the whole with a sort of just-came-off-the-boat feel, but how could she blame him when so many Americans had the same misconceptions about people fleeing the Soviet “Republics”?

“I am sure he was,” cooed the older blonde to her daughter with the same satisfaction a cat has when it catches its prey. “Is he handsome?”

“Maman!”

“Do not ‘Maman!’ me! He has obviously left an impression on you.”

Hissing at a man like a cat in heat did tend to leave an impression on people. Other than that, there was nothing. “He just sits on the street, Maman. We had a brief conversation, I baked him cookies—“

“Cookies?”

“It was no big deal! He was just hungry and I felt bad for ignoring him the night before.”

“You felt bad?” Maman echoed again. “I can only imagine why.”

“I’m not a heartless bitch. That’s why,” she barked out before her breath came out as a rattling hiss. Why did she have to make this act of charity some sort of romantic gesture? “Look, I’m sort of busy today, Maman. You mind if I call you back at some later time? Maybe tonight before you come over tomorrow?”

“Not heartless indeed.” Her voice sounded like a wounded howl before the Frenchwoman huffed in frustration. “Very well. Until then, ma Petite. I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.” She hung up abruptly. Draped over the couch like Cleopatra, Amelia squeezed her eyes shut. Bourbon called to her, but it couldn’t solve the profound anger and confusion she felt, for what? Her mom teasing her about having feelings for a man she hardly knew? Hardly worth the anger, the salt within her heart. It meant nothing. He meant nothing. And she meant nothing to him. Their lives would always parallel after their little meeting. That much she held for the absolute gospel.

 

She hauled herself off of the loveseat and turned her attention to her kitchen with her robe half-open. Gathering the empty drink glasses in between her forearm and her chin, she padded into her modern kitchen with its faded yellow counters and cabinet more filled with alcohol than she was by nightfall. Her arms dumped the empty glasses in the sink with an unceremonious rattle and knocking. She turned her head to her faded yellow refrigerator before the knock resounded, louder.

Her whole body rotated to hear the Russian accent speak her name. “Ms. Jones? Amelia?”

 

Her lips tugged into a smile before her hands tugged her robe shut. Immodest as she could be for a high-class lady, he didn’t need to see her bare breasts. Although—Nevermind. Her feet carried her with a dance-like rhythm to the door until the opening of the door and the rhythm knocked against the wall. There he stood, steel-eyed and looking down his nose at her like a guard questioning her at every turn like she was a transgressor in her own home. Yet, her smile didn’t fade from her rosy lips. “Ivan. Mr. Braginsky! Hello, how are you?”

“Hello,” he answered in his baritone as his eyes glanced down modestly at the floor to prevent any peeks at her chest. “I am well, thank you.” His mouth opened to echo the question. Her blue eyes shined like the boundless ocean and shut his mouth sharply. She was well. He hoped she was well or something had gone wrong in God’s great love of the universe if such a creator could find it in His heart punish such a charitable woman. “I wanted to, uh, follow? Follow up in your offer?”

“You wanna shower?” She said in the soft, excited voice of a child conspiring with their best friend to get into trouble. So soft and so excited, that he couldn’t quite understand what she said through her thick accent. You want to show her? Show ‘er? His brows fell like a heavy loaf of bread as his mind puzzled through the options.

“With you?” He asked in a slow, though equally soft voice like the best friend slowing down before the trouble caught up to them. It was after those words left his lips that he realized he had used the wrong phrase.

Her heart sank as her eyes widen. Those boundless eyes stuck to the wall as those rosy lips smacked before her perfect white teeth chewed down at it. “Oh, uh, no. No, no. No.” Her words came out in frantic bubbles as her hands went out to guard 

“That is not what I meant! Ah, I am sorry!” He reached out to stop her from sputtering out of control. His hand rested on top of her own far warmer, far softer hand. In spite of the awkward situation, she did not tug away from the almost familiar, almost comforting touch. A snort escaped from her nose as she placed her free hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. The last thing I need from you, Mister, is for you to be ogling my nude body.” Her index finger patted the tip of his long nose. His eyes glanced down at the white robe as he bit down on his lower lip before his gaze found her eyes again. “I mean, you haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet,” she teased with a wide smile. She looked down again, realizing that not only she was touching a filthy coat that looked like it had been made before Stalingrad and that they were practically holding hands. She bit down on her lower lip. This was surprisingly—

“I am so sorry,” he murmured. “For—“The Russian seemed to pick up on what she was looking at and shied away from her. The two untangled themselves from one another and stood at least a foot apart as Amelia rubbed at the nape of her neck. “I will go to the shower. Please excuse my mistake,” he told her as he stepped around her as though approaching her too close would set off a bomb. With an amused smirk, she watched and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Yeah, do that. It’s in my bedroom to the left! And feel free to leave out your clothes, so I can wash them for you.” She never considered herself the “housewife” type—hell, not even her boss bought that schtick, given his comments to her—but she could wash some clothes, so he didn’t need to wallow in his own grime. Besides, what was a little laundry between them, near total strangers?

He hesitated in the doorway between her bedroom and the living space. His eyes widened as though he was a deer in headlights. “Are you sure, Ms. Amelia?”

“Sure am. Why not?” Her shoulders shrugged. If his first instinct about Americans was that they were untrustworthy or that they were bullheaded idiots, he’d have another thing coming. “It doesn’t hurt me to be nice.” She added a soft smile into the mix to reassure him.

His lips parted as though he was about to say something before they pulled into a weary smile. “Thank you.” He turned and went into her oddly empty bedroom. She had to be rich to afford this apartment, so why weren’t her walls covered with carpets or other knick-knacks, family photos? Just photos of her with people who looked nothing like her. His stomach flopped at the realization. Maybe she only served as some sort of informant. This was not her real home. This was a cover to attract people and report them. This wasn’t like the nice people at the food center. He shut his eyes. But the hand touching—! But the shoulder—! It could all be a ruse to lure him into a false sense of security.

It wouldn’t have been the first time, either. Strangers with whom he did not often speak were harmless. This woman had seen him. She had heard him. Now, she had him trapped in her home.

Still, he needed a shower and a shave. If she had already called the police, they would be there within five minutes and then—Then, he had no clue what he would do with his life. Cry. Wait for the end. Race towards it. Beg any and every higher power for forgiveness, and safety for his sisters. He stripped himself of his clothes and set his suitcase outside the bathroom door for her—for the police, really. How embarrassing. They would arrest him while he was naked. _Отлично._ He inhaled one final time before he went into her shower to figure out how to work the damn water. He refused to go to prison in his state.

He stripped himself of his clothes and set them atop his suitcase. Dirt covered every bare inch of his face as he looked into a perfectly clean mirror. Sighing in revulsion with himself, he went into a modern shower with glass and barely enough space for him to wash. He turned a few knobs, avoiding what seemed to be the cold water with cat-like reflexes before he stepped into hot water that spurted out only occasionally. Just the way he liked it.

Once she heard the door close, Amelia poked her head into her bedroom to see if he had left his clothes as she had asked. Sure enough, a heap of disgusting and old clothes lay on the floor as well as a suitcase full of them. Grimacing at the task she assigned herself, she stacked the clothes atop the suitcase before she wheeled it to the laundry room. _Jesus Christ, how long has it been since he’s done his fucking laundry?_ She coughed at the awful smell of sweat, dirt, and—Jesus Christ, _ew!_ She tilted her head up as he stomach did circles in trying to keep down her water. Without regard to how she was supposed to wash the clothes or dry them, she shoved the entire load into the washer with as much detergent as she could without flooding the damn room.

The second she could leave, she stalked into her bedroom on a mission and pounded on her bathroom door with all of her strength. Being homeless, she could understand. That was most likely beyond his control, and finding fault in that would speak more to her character than to his. Disgusting laundry, on the other hand, could be done with a few nickels after panhandling and an hour or so of patience. “Ivan I-Don’t-Know-What-Your-Middle-Name-Is!”

Unsure whether to congratulate her for her patience for saying that string of words without stuttering or cry that the police had presumably arrived, he answered and leaned against the glass shower walls, “What is wrong, Ms. Amelia?” His voice quivered as he prepared to cover his genitalia to save himself some embarrassment.

“You are never not doing your laundry again! Every Monday I want to see your butt in here doing laundry because I nearly puked doing it for you!” Tension released from his sore body as his hands pulled away to stroke through the hair on his head. Laughter escaped his lips in soft wheezes as his forehead pressed against the glass. Amelia frowned to herself and pounded harder to remind him that this wasn’t some sort of prank on her part. “This isn’t funny! I’m serious!”

He washed over his face and looked down at his hand, seeing the grime that covered it. He glanced at the door as he exhaled all of his nervousness. “Okay. I will be here on Mondays from now on,” he promised in a soft shout as not to scare her. His eyes widened, waiting to see if any police would burst forth anyway. When no one came, he murmured a soft, “Слава Богу.” (4) In a few more days, laundry wouldn’t be an issue and this poor woman would never have to worry about him again and vice versa.

“You better!” She threatened. To further her point, she opened the door slightly. Steam poured out of the room as Ivan jumped back against the glass. Two perfectly manicured hands slipped in. The right hand balled into a fist while the other remained open. Wanting to give her guest some privacy in spite of quite literally seeing his dirty laundry, she kept the rest of her body behind the door. “This is going to be your face if you don’t!” Her right lurched forward and completely missed her open palm. Ivan covered his eyes, restraining harder, heartier, and happier laughs squeezed past his lips. His forearm hid his whole face as Amelia successfully smacked her hands together. “See! That would be your face! Only worse and more beaten up because I don’t want to ruin this manicure for a demonstration alone.”

Her own face had turned scarlet behind the protection of the wooden door. She pulled her hands back to her sides and leaned against the door to shut it. “I saw,” he guffawed out as his breathing seemed to calm again. Her body lulled as she glanced up to the ceiling. “Believe me, Ms. Amelia. You do not need to worry about me.”

She snorted. “It’s not about worry. I do enough of that on my own. It’s pointing out that you shouldn’t be so damn dirty. You’ll attract ants once spring thaws and then what? You’ll come crying to me and then I’ll have to bathe you in vinegar to get rid of the itch and buy you new clothes.” She stroked some hair back behind her ear.

“You are under no obligation to do any of that for me.” He pulled away from the glass, watching steam form on the glass and the handprints he had left. For the sake of her belongings, he stepped aside and let the water wash away gray dirt that had gotten on the clear glass. Again, this was different from helping out that poor woman at the food center. It was just food. This was a shower. “Really. I am only in a bad place for the moment.” He took a sponge and began to lather his body with soap to finish this quickly before the conversation held more promise for her than he intended.

“Sure you are, Big Guy.” She glanced down at the floor, searching it and coming across his suitcase. She opened it, finding a foreign passport immediately and ignoring it. A small, metal box sat inside with what she guessed was his shaving supplies. “But, then again, you don’t seem to have anyone else around to help you.” She poked her hand in again, setting the kit on the sink and patting it. “Might as well give you a hand since I’m able to.”

“You do not—“ Her hand slipped back behind the door.

“Braginsky. Let me do what I want. I want to help you. End of story.”

His stomach flopped again as he rinsed off and scrubbed his beard. Nothing about this connected to a concrete reality that he knew. Could this still be some sort of trap? “May I ask why?”

She tugged her lips into a thin line. “I know what it’s like to be in a rough spot.” She looked out her window into the gray sky, ready to burst with snow. Her eyes squeezed shut, pushing away memories that Maman so lovingly and inadvertently dredged up. God, how was she going to put up with tomorrow if all she focused on was “being taken care of”? Hadn’t they both had enough of that for one lifetime? Her arms wrapped around her curvy frame to hug herself. Her fingers tugged on the white fabric of her robe to cover herself better. “I have enough sense and compassion still in me to know it’s the right thing to do.” She glanced behind her at the door. “Obviously you do too if you’re so insistent about my generosity. I don’t need any more reason beyond that.”

He remained silent as he washed his hair. Her tone had changed from its normal perky, upbeat cadence to something so slow and so remorseful he didn’t know what he had really asked to make her feel that way. He washed over his body one more time and spoke. “I appreciate it. Really.”

She smiled to herself. “You better. I’m not about to open up a charity solely for you and expect nothing in return.”

After he had rinsed himself off, he shut off the water. A white towel wrapped around his waist as he stepped forward to the mirror to shave. “What do you want in return?” Without any water roaring between them, he could practically hear his heart beating as he expected a confession, an explanation, or something of the sort.

She pursed her lips as she thought. “A nice dinner once you’re nice and cleaned up.”

He looked down at the sink, washing it out with some water. His razor sat in his kit, still relatively new. He filled a small bowl with soap before hot water poured into it. “It may be a while before that happens. I may not have a lot of money for a while.”

“I’m not asking for something fancy. Just make me some dinner tonight, get it out of the way, and get on your way.” Her stomach clenched in hunger, growling like an angry animal. What a woman she was. Drinking like a sailor in peacetime without a second thought to her own more bodily needs. She hadn’t even curled her hair in the past few days! “Company for a night would be nice, too, don’t cha think? And you can cook whatever you want!”

Considering the fear he had felt and the fact that he had no troubles cooking for himself, he had no reasonable argument against her. Considering she hadn’t called law enforcement on him yet, a chat could be permissible. Dinner could be permissible. Nothing to complain about. He coated his beard down to his neck with white foam. “I suppose I cannot complain when you put it that way.” Someone to talk to, especially someone as peppy as Ms. Amelia, would be nice.

Amelia’s lips tugged into a warm smile. No aversion. No distrust. “Complaining is the last thing I want you to do, Big Guy,” she assured him, deciding that a robe just wouldn’t cut it if she was going to spend time with him. She stepped away from the door to change into something befitting her company. A red dress suited it. Slipping a bra on, the satin fell right over pale skin. “Since all of your clothes are in the wash, I’m just going to let you borrow one of my robes, okay?”

The Russian stopped with the blade on the flat part of his cheek. Violet eyes blinked in the mirror before they turned towards the door. “You are smaller than me,” he chided. Though, she swam in that robe so much it left so little to the imagination. That robe was so thin that he saw her—he saw so much that he shouldn’t have. He set the razor down. “Are you sure that it is a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?” She fiddled with her hair to bring some much-needed life back to her blonde frame. “Are you worried about me seeing your pe—?”

“Yes!”

What a baby. She flattened the hem of her skirt to the perfectly acceptable length of right below the knee. See! That was a pretty damn domestic choice of hers! “My robes go down to my ankles. Or were you too focused on my nipples to notice?” Amelia listened to the sweet, damning sound of silence before she charged the air with a giggle. So what if he stole a peek or two where he shouldn’t have? She snuck her own peeks at his body here and there. Immodesty in the safety of her apartment amounted to nothing at the end of the day; No one needed to know. “You’re a dirty dog, Mr. Braginsky. Just take the damn robe when I give it to you, and I’ll pretend that you said, ‘No ma’am’.”

“No ma’am,” Ivan hurried to say before he realized how that meant nothing in context. Of course, her laughter from the other side of the door gave it away. “Y-Yes ma’am! I will put on the robe!”

“You better!” She exclaimed through the thick wood. Her hand brushed some hair out of her face before she turned to grab a darker robe for him. While it was one thing for him to come upon her unexpectedly (in more than one way if things went well) and see her practically naked, seeing the outline of a man’s penis for a solid hour while she laundered his clothes didn’t sound—well, as Maman would put it, romantic in context even though the thought was a little—

What was she thinking? Her hand stroked over her face as she set a dark blue robe on the handle of the bathroom door. “Robe’s on the door! We’ll get around to dinner once you’re ready!” But why couldn't she escape the nagging feeling that she had forgotten something? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Edward Muhl, head of Universal Productions from 1953-1957.  
> (2) "Little One" in French.  
> (3) Romeo and Juliet, Scene II, act ii, lines 57-59 (I think? It's around there)  
> (4) "Thank God" In Russia.
> 
> And it's another one down!

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by a long-term roleplay between Nyo!America and Russia from Hetalia: Axis Powers.


End file.
